Two Bullets
by piratesmiley
Summary: Bones/West Wing. "Not in a million years did she expect her two worlds would fall together so tragically." Booth/Brennan, Josh/Donna.
1. Prologue

Temperance Brennan was suspended in utter hysteria.

Her breath came out in pants of disbelief; tears marked her eyes and made them sparkle in the darkest way possible.

She'd never imagined this day would come. Not in a million years did she expect her two worlds would fall together so tragically, so brokenly.

Not that she hadn't imagined them falling together at all—sure, the distance between the two was great, but inevitably she wished that one day, maybe … possibly … but regardless, she should have expected this. With her luck, her track record, her whatever you like to call it…she should have seen this coming.

Such an unfortunate soul was she. But that was something she just had to live with.

She listened to the man's words, not wanting to believe it but already knowing it to be true.

If possible, her heart broke more.


	2. Chapter One

A/N: So. I have been dreaming of this crossover since I realized I could go AU. Therefore, be aware that THIS _IS_ COMPLETELY AU, overlapping season one of The West Wing with season Three of Bones. Also, West Wing fans, beware--I will get to that half of the story as soon as possible. But the next few chapters will be all Bones.

Spoilers: West Wing, season one; Bones, season three

Disclaimer: I don't own either show.

--

_Your going away  
And I'm feeling the same thing day after day  
I can't let it go  
Everyone in this room  
They've got troubles too  
Secret stories and  
Lies that we never knew_  
-Xavia, The Submarines

--

Nothing held meaning anymore. Absolutely nothing mattered but him, nothing could possibly capture her attention, nothing could break her concentration, nothing could move her from her place in this damned hospital waiting room.

She _hated_ hospitals. She hated the smell (too clean, too disinfected — it felt like a lie, amongst the sick, to bleach the pain of malady away) and the feel (like they were all on display—the mention of privacy was laughed at, like such a thing was possible in such a place as this), but mostly the connotation. All her life, if she was here then something was wrong.

And damn it, today was no exception.

Frankly, everything was very, very wrong. Everything was broken and everything needed to be fixed _right now this minute._ Currently, everything was in surgery, had been for too many hours, and the state of everything was bringing her once yellow mood down to black and mercurial. How fitting—the one time she let go of herself, everything got shot by his crazy stalker, while she was singing Cyndi Lauper.

_Damn it._

It was such a wait too — she was left with her own thoughts, which was always dangerous. None of them knew how deafening her thoughts were, how dark and mangled and wrenched her sensibilities became in one night. It was mind boggling.

But usually he was here to lift her out of it. Now he was just … gone.

But then the doctor came out and she lifted her head out of her hands, became aware of Angela's hand on her back and Cam's tears and Hodgins' shocked expression and Sweet's somewhat stunned eyes, watching her apprehensively, and she listened to the doctor say that everything was alright but no emotion was betrayed, just a stiff yes when he asked her if she wanted to see him.

_Calm down._ Booth could probably sense her panic, even after twelve hours of surgery and being loaded up on morphine.

Her man, her savior, her partner. He was lying there helpless and that was just something Brennan wasn't used to. But she went to his side and sat in a stiff yellow chair and grabbed his hand for dear life and steadied herself, trying to find a way to pray for him to make it without actually conceding the existence of a god. She supposed she could hope—hoping sufficed, she could hope for anything she wanted, and any supreme deity, real or not could hear, or not hear, what she was thinking.

Sweets was right — she really could rationalize anything.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: Dedicated to my...er, two readers. At least one of which who doesn't even watch Bones. Thanks for sticking this out with me.

--

_So then I took my turn,  
Oh what a thing to have done,  
And it was all yellow  
Your skin  
Oh yeah, your skin and bones,  
Turn into something beautiful,  
You know, you know I love you so_  
-Yellow, Coldplay

--

She exalted when he woke up. He wasn't completely conscious, but damn, she didn't care one bit, as long as he could open his eyes and see her face and say her name. After he did that, he fell back into oblivion, but it was the safe kind, the kind that guaranteed a second act.

She cried freely, something she didn't do often. She left the tears be subconscious thank you's to everyone who deserved it—and right now she was feeling pretty generous, so the wet drops kept coming and coming and her brain whirled and twirled around the beautiful fact—_oh my god he's alive, he woke up, he's alive_.

She didn't remember ever feeling so much better so fast. It was truly a remarkable feat.

So she leaned back in the misshapen gold chair and rested her eyes.

--

She dreamed of that yellow seat. She dreamed of him, in that plastic yellow chair, and suddenly it looked far more inviting, tantalizing even. He could make anything look good.

She watched him beckon to something and realized that she wasn't just watching, she was part of the story and he wanted her. So she glided forward and he outstretched his arms to touch, _touch_, touch her everywhere. And in that simple brush, cell to cell, he managed to make her _feel_ so many things — full, yet desperately empty; complete, but still wanting more; righted and utterly wronged.

He pulled her onto her knees, in between his own legs and lifted her hair to kiss her throat, her collarbone, her cheeks — but never her lips, for that would just be too much for her to handle. His hands slid down her sides while her own became curiously unmovable; she was so pleasured by his touch that she stilled. She could hardly create enough brain function to request her own skin, bone, muscle to function the way his seemed to be doing effortlessly.

Then he whispered something to her, but even though she was right next to him she couldn't understand. He kept repeating with the same seraphic smile on his face and she kept not understanding until finally he leaned a tiny bit closer, letting his smile grow a tiny bit wider, and finally she could hear.

She could understand.

"I love you."


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: West Wing now. Yay!

--

_Something is scratching its way out  
Something you want to forget about  
No one expects  
You to get up  
All on your own with  
No one around _  
-Little House, The Fray

--

Donna panicked silently.

God knows she's never been through anything like this before. God knows _she_ doesn't know how to handle this.

How could everyone be so still, so quiet? She had the urge to _scream._

She got that unfortunately familiar feeling in her stomach, where the pit of it felt warm enough to burn, and far too solid, expanding to the point where the naked eye should surely find it visible. The sinking feeling was palpable, unending. She recalled high school dance anxiety, recitals, job interviews, and every time he came a little too close…

But this was far worse. This was naked, unaltered _fear_, grown deep from love and hate, the two most powerful things in the world. She was stuck in a rut of hopelessness. There was nothing she could do, nothing Donna Moss could accomplish, organize, break down, beat up or cry about that would make anything better. She had to wait this out.

God, it just wasn't fathomable. How could it be possible that Josh, her Josh, _Joshua_ Josh who couldn't work a computer or tie a bowtie and lived a dreadfully empty life (besides all that work being done for the president, and all), was on an operating table? It couldn't be. This scenario was one Donna never considered, because of Josh's infallibility, his charm, his guile, his getting-his-way, his confidence — shown up only by his ego. These things didn't add up to getting shot and _almost dying_ (knock on wood, turn around and spit, _cautious optimism _— what a mantra).

Josh was too resilient; Josh had survived too long for it to end like this. His family had already survived enough tragedy—father dead, sister dead, his mother the last—_oh God._

Josh's mom.

--

She knew the number by heart, but that struck her as odd. Should she know it? Was it considered normal for assistants to know their boss' mother's phone number?

Even asking herself it sounded strange. Then again, she and Josh had never been standard issue. She was completely fascinated with him, wanting to know why he did what he did, what was the purpose, and damn it, why can't we do it this way (_because we're Democrats!_)? But besides that, she wanted to know so very badly what he was thinking. She wanted to reach inside that mind of his and read it like a book, cover to cover, word by tantalizing word (_760 verbal, baby—_oh, _God_ she wanted him to call her _baby_), until she'd finally reached a conclusion, a definitive answer on any and every question. She wanted to know everything about him; one of her goals — a slightly disturbed one, but a goal nonetheless — was to be an expert on Josh.

And so she dialed Sarah Lyman's phone number without looking it up in her address book, and held her breath until she picked up.


End file.
